


Until Death Do Us One

by Halkyon_Blade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Drarry, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magic, Master of Death, Mentions of Afterlife, No main character deaths, PTSD, Post-Hogwarts, Rating May Change, Suicide, Tags May Change, Triggers, blatantly ignoring series epilogue, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halkyon_Blade/pseuds/Halkyon_Blade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry, the boy who lived. Draco, the boy who lived to regret. Harry decided that the Other Side was not to be graced with the blond's passing. Death, by her own rules, was not allowed to refuse. Consequences could not be avoided though. Master Of Death AU-ish. Last chapter of DH never happened. Heavy Triggers, PTSD, Suicide and other Dark stuff. Fluffy angst. Drarry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Draco Malfoy

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I hold no rights over the characters of this story.
> 
> **Warnings:** Heavy Triggers

_Life sucks._

That was the personal motto that pulled Draco Malfoy through the day. His reminder that he was still alive and regretting it.

Life is unfair.

Life hurts.

Therefore it bloody sucks.

Everyday he awoke in white emptiness and every night he went to bed only to be tormented by the face of every innocent soul tortured and dead because of him.

Because he was weak.

Because he was worthless.

He deserved everything that life brought him after the war and even more. He was utterly alone and he still couldn't decide whether that was a curse or a blessing. He felt numb while hurting all over. His soul, his very core, were broken.

He had lost everything.

Even though the Dark Lord was defeated, therefore the leash, binding him to someone he despised from the bottom of his very being, broken, he had still lost. He got his wish and his nightmares, both granted at the same time. His father was shipped off to Azkaban for life, where he left his parting breath a year and a half after the Battle of Hogwarts. It was impressing really, that he managed to survive that long. His mother didn't have the mark, and wasn't accused of anything more than interacting and passively helping the enemy, so she was left off lightly, sentenced to five years under house arrest in the Malfoy mansion, no magic.

She had managed to survive only four of them. The heavy depression after Lucius' death and the heavy pressure from the wizarding world on her frail shoulders, combined with the loss of everything in her life save for Draco, had her falling severely ill. She had died in his arms, his name, her baby's name, the last thing leaving her pale white lips.

He had lost everything he had fought for. He did not take the mark or work for Voldemort because he wanted to. He had done what he had to protect himself and the people he cared for. And he had obviously failed. Even so it surprised him how he still had escaped the law.

Draco hadn't been sentenced for his wrong-doings, only thanks to one Harry Potter. Even though he bared the disgusting mark, even though so many had suffered so that he and his family could be safe, the fact that Potter had burst in the court room during his trial, insisting that Draco's help was essential to the victory of the Light, had him send off home guilty-free.

But not guilt-free.

Most of his family's fortune had been confiscated after his father's imprisonment as funds to repay the damages inflicted by the Death Eaters upon the world. Draco only had his father's mansion left. Depressed enough to be unable to use his magic, friend-less, help-less and hated by the world, Draco had no idea why he still allowed himself to walk this world alive. He didn't deserve his life.

His thoughts trailed off to the Boy-who-Lived. What did he do after the war? He probably finally got the life he dreamed, the life he deserved. With a loving family, a good job and surrounded by people who cared about him.

He had years to have any actual interaction with the outside world, but when he was still in school rumors had it that Potter aimed to become an Auror, much like his parents were. He had probably succeeded. Draco could think of very few, if any, better suited for a job like that than Harry Potter. He could imagine the Golden Child speed rising through the ranks to Head Auror, if he hadn't reached it already. They probably had given him his badge without even asking him to pass the exams and had offered him the position themselves.

Or he could have become a Quiditch player. Best seeker of the school and maybe even their generation, he wouldn't have had any problem getting into any team he wished. He probably had countless offers from all over the world, begging him to grace them with his registration.

Whatever he had become he was certainly happy. One of the perks of being the Wizarding world's saviour. Married to the Weaslette, maybe even with a child or two of his own. Draco could only guess.

It felt weird, thinking about his childhood nemesis with apathy, no rivalry hate or jealously burning with the thought that the Griffindor led a life happier than his own miserable existence. The Saviour deserved at least that much. As was the Death Eater.

Draco still didn't know why Potter had stood up for him all those years ago. He owed Draco nothing, his debt from when the Slytherin hadn't revealed his identity at Malfoy manor repaid when he saved him from the Fiendfire in the room of Requiems. So why would he go out of his way to defend /him/ of all people? Draco didn't care, or so he told himself. The small pang of hurt he still felt at the thought that the other boy hadn't cared to check up on him, even to see if he was still alive, wasn't real. Just another lie he told himself to pretend he wasn't the shadow he seemed to have become.

Draco shook his head to dismiss the thoughts. His unkempt platinum hair, now almost at waist length, waving and falling in front of his eyes as he did so. He didn't even notice. Slowly and tentatively, he rose from the dusty old chair by the window of his father's study. His weak legs barely held him upright. His body had become bony and thin and weak. He didn't care for himself, it had probably been weeks since he had eaten something even remotely substantial, but he /didn't. care./ There was no reason to. His eyes fell on a dusty picture by his father's big ebony desk. He gingerly picked it up and run his bony fingers over the glass, leaving clear trails on the dust. It was his parents, back in happier days. Lucius' face was young, handsome, with the trademark Malfoy sneer plastered on his sharp face. But his grey eyes were soft, looking at the beautiful woman by his side with unmasked fondness, a smile threatening to break the façade. He had his arm around his wife's waist. Narcissa looked so young, yet still majestic and stunning, leaning back in her husband's embrace. Her face was lit up with pure happiness, her smiling face and bright blue eyes trailing from the man by her side to the small sleeping bundle in her arms, her Dragon. It was so eerily peaceful, such a cruel promise of what could have been, had the accursed Dark Lord never returned. Before his father went mad from fear and torture, before his mother died early from depression and grief. Before.

A single salty tear run from a dull silver eye to trembling lips, falling onto the glass silently and mixing with the dust. He tore his gaze from the picture and put it back on the desk, before he turned and stumbled down the empty corridor. He had long since freed and dismissed the house elves of the mansion, the cold building even colder by the emptiness that graced it. Draco's ghost-like figure walked towards his rooms supported by the wall, his bare feet echoing through the empty space and returning back to him, like they were mocking his lonely presence.

He walked into his room, and moved to stand in-front of the full body vintage mirror. He hesitantly took in his pale demeanor, his eyes lingering on the bones, so heavily pronounced that he could count almost every single one of them. His skin, deathly pale and ill looking, so white that it was almost transparent. His sunken face, so very different than from when he was in school, With black-purple marks under the eyes that betrayed his exhaustion. His twiggy legs, straining with the effort of keeping him standing. what a disgrace. So completely worthless. Why did he allow for this -his- pathetic existence to continue? Such a coward still, after all these years after the war. Seven long, dark, empty years. His apathetic face suddenly twisted into one of pure resentment, anger, pain, fury. All those dangerous emotions that he bottled deep inside of him for years, surged out. What he kept locked, building and growing inside him the more he fed it, everything burst out in one single moment, his bony fist colliding heavily with the reflective surface. Blood spluttered everywhere. Small. shiny pieces of glass, poked from the shredded skin of his knuckles, logged in so deep that he was sure there was some irreversible damage done. He didn't mind, it didn't matter, he had no more use of his hand, of his flesh.

His eyes lifted to the broken pieces still stubbornly clinging onto the wooden frame. Hundreds little mirrors reflecting his face. Hundreds of his once lively silver eyes, now the grey of the dead, stared back at him. Slowly, he bend down, taking hold of a piece. A nice, big, sharp piece. He weighted it into his palm. It would do. It would do nicely for what he intended it to. It wouldn't be hard, his body just a soulless, broken shell. He saw his face again, into the sharp piece. A single reflection. The first real smile after almost ten years was the last image of Draco Malfoy in this world, before the sharp surface met the sensitive flesh of a pale wrist, painting the white skin red, creating a scarlet pool on the marble floor. And then Draco Malfoy was no more, his body lying dead on the cold floor, for no-one to find.


	2. Harry Potter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I hold no rights over the characters of this story.

_Harry Potter._

The Savior.

The Golden Child.

The Boy-Who-Lived (twice).

There were many names referring to his person. People idolized him before he was even able to walk, much less find out what was going on. An entire world unknown to him, rested all their hopes, all their dreams all their burdens upon his frail childish shoulders. And he had endured. And he had survived each trial send his way, barely sometimes. And he had ignored the scoff mock and contempt people directed at him because they knew no better. He had risen victorious every single time.

The Chosen One.

_The Master Of Death._

He had survived, yes, but that didn't mean he had not died a couple of times. Dumbledore had explained the blood spell that his mother's death had initiated, but he knew better. I wasn't the spell. At least not _just_ the spell. At first he was confused. he had been in denial and had tried moving on like nothing had happened. But he wasn't the same. Not after the war. Not after he had dies a second time.

There was a prophecy (an accursed one according to Harry), that told of two chosen children born in July. Voldemort (or Tom Riddle) had send his lackeys to one of them and went to personally deal with the second one. It was there that everything begun.

He marched into the house slaughtering James Potter first. The heir to the ancient line of Potters, descendant of Ignotus Peverell, the youngest of the Three Brothers, the wisest of the three, was now dead. All of his and his name's legacy passing on to the next in line, his new-born son. The son that not long after his father's death found himself in his begging mother's arms, while the Dark Lord made quick work of the last loving person in the baby's life. The bond of the parent, and the love and blood sacrifice of the mother, were the things that protected the small heir by bringing him back from the dead and turning him into a dark horcux when the green light of the killing curse threatened to swallow him. Sixteen years later found the young man walking through the Forbidden Forest wearing the Cloak of Invisibility of his ancestor, the Third Brother, using the Resurrection Stone of Cadmus Perevell, the second of the brothers, and being the rightful master of the Elder Wand of Antioch Peverell, the eldest Possessor of the three Deathly Hallows.

It was then that he died a second time sacrificed by that same elder wood bark in the wrong hands, the hands of the person that had marked him in the first place, part of said person dying along with him. And it was then that the ritual set by Death itself was completed and Death had to kneel before It's master. He didn't want it. He had thrown the stone away, broken the wand and abandoned (more like forgotten about) the cloak, only to find them in his pocket, unharmed and folded neatly at the foot of his bed respectively the next morning. He had outright refused when Death had appeared before him, in the form of a floating eerily grey woman surrounded by smoke, only to be told there was no going back.

He had ignored her and moved on. But his new abilities had caught on with him.

He hated it. Across the times of magic history there were legends of what he was. Nothing substantial, mere rumors, but no references or details at all. Only thing close enough to be considered reliable, a tale to tell children at night in an old book. Nowhere mentioned the downsides of being something like that though.

If he left his guard down or he concentrated (not that he would) he could faintly feel every single soul collected by Death, every single death that happened in the world. He was the Master and Death reported everything back to him. If he looked intently into a person's eyes, he could see everything about their death, what would happen up to that moment, how much time remained, where they would go after that if they decided to pass the bridge and not remain back as ghosts. Oh, and he was immortal. or so Death told him. He didn't believe it at first, but he was forced to recognize it as it was after a certain quite painful incident confirmed it. A "D.E. Jr', as Harry called them, a member of one of the numerous underground movements supporting the deceased Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, had cornered him once in a backstreet alley and drove a cursed dagger through his ribs. Harry had blinked in confusion when his panic was found unbased, as nothing followed the burning sting of the wound. Death had made her appearance then, in her favorite smoky form, and whisked the offending man away in fury. The wound had sealed itself a while later, after the blade was removed. That had proven that Harry was indeed undead, though he was able to bleed and feel pain, thankfully, which made him still partly human, at least. He was not an unfeeling monster, but he was no longer human. There went the normal life he so desperately craved after everything was over.

Death was a relative form. Not a woman or a man, not existing but still there. Able to take form, change and assume. It was his friend, his enemy, partner, slave, companion, mentor and follower, familial figure and stranger. He knew almost nothing about the being, but after a while he got used to it. Especially since it had a habit of getting bored and popping up at random times -invisible to other humans- offering sassy comments about random things.

What he couldn't get used to, was the rest of the things that he had to endure. So much death, so much pain, especially after what he went through with the war. He could not bare the feeling of losing another loved one. Not after Sirius. Not after Remus. Tonks, Fred, Dumbledore, Snape and all the other victims that had sacrificed themselves in order for Harry's mission to succeed.

He wasn't required to take up the role, for that he was thankful. He was still able to interfere, take give and change, with a single word, a single thought and Death would obey. But the warning he received about reckless use of his privilege was enough to prevent him from wanting anything to do with it. He should not interfere with the dead. The balance should not be broken, or the consequences could be dire. So he continued as he was. But still, he was not able to live among the rest of the humans. Months after the fated war, he started distancing himself from the rest of the world, slowly closing in on himself and barely ventured out of Grimmault Place. He refused to see his friends and companions, who were increasingly worried about him and locked himself in a small bubble of misery and death. Ron and Hermione tried talking to him, help him, but he felt disgusted with himself, refused to open up to then. He didn't want to burden them further, not when their lives has taken such happy turn. The war had brought them closer, five months after the nightmare was over they were already engaged to be married. Harry would never forget the excitement in Mione's glistering eyes as they announced it to him. They were _happy._ He would not be the one to take that away from them selfishly.

And Ginny. Ginny, the sweet redhead girl that loved him so much in the past, now seemed scared of him. Like she didn't know him anymore. And she was right, she didn't, not anymore. when she came to him with tears in her eyes, asking him to break it up, he just smiled sadly and nodded, before hugging her for the last time as a lover. It was not long after that, after he cut his last ties with the world, that he disappeared. Not literally, of course, but being the possessor of The Invisibility Cloak had it's advantages.

And that's how he lived for almost six years, locked in his God-father's house, barely interacting with anyone from the outside world unless strictly necessary. If he felt the need to go out he usually dwelled in the darkest parts of the world, like the Knockturn Alley or Magic Black Market, where there wasn't a chance to be recognized, no-one questioned him, and there usually were no nice or noble people for Harry to be depressed about if he happened to glance upon their future death. Only 'friends' he still had were Kreacher, the house elf and and the occasional visit from the surprisingly chatty Death. He refused to casually interact with normal people, couldn't stand himself around others or go out in the everyday world without his cloak or a glamour, not when death literally surrounded his being (seriously, he could swear that entity had some serious stalking issues/ bad habits) like that.

And that's where the warning from Death found him, sitting before the window of Grimmault Place, when he felt the passing of the blond Slytherin like a sword between his ribs, screaming of the last darkness his former nemesis faced just before the last breath left his body.


	3. Master Of Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I hold no rights over the characters of this story.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Triggers, Blood

Harry's fist clenched around the fabric of his shirt, just above his heart. He let out a gasping sound, not sure himself if it was of surprise or pain. A cold, dead feeling spread inside him making him shiver, completely unrelated with the fact that he was buddies with Death herself.

He jumped up from his seat, stumbling, and closed his eyes, taking in big, calming breaths. He ignored the fact that he was trembling and forced the panic in his throat to subside, his mind to relax. His fist clenched tighter and he focused on the coldness inside him, the one that made him feel like his body was freezing and rotting from the inside out. Of course he knew what it was, he felt it constantly for the past seven years to the point that he no longer paid it any conscious mind. Until now. This... powerful surge, the shrieking voice that screamed "...death...death...gone, left...DEATH...!". It was unlike any death he had felt until now.

Focusing on it stung. It hurt, almost physically. The bubbling feelings ingrained on the person's soul flooded his mind like a blinding wave. He got random glances and images; a clear sky. A dusty desk. Pale, bare feet going one in-front of the other. A tear, a Dark Mark. Broken shards shattered on marble floor, red blood pooling around them... 

He mostly ignored them, though the mark made him frown. Did a Death Eater do something to the poor soul? Were there still more of them left in hiding? He focused more on the feeling, looking deep into the darkness of the deathly link. More feelings emerged, rushing his way; fear, sorrow, confusion, desperation, loneliness, grief--

Harry's eyes shot open and he scrambled from the room to grab his Cloak and run from the house, where his own powerful wards made dissaparition impossible. Only one thing was left in his mind at the moment.

_"Malfoy."_

\---------------

It took him just a few seconds to appear in-front of the gates of Malfoy Manor. He had no idea if Malfoy would be there, but it was his only chance. For a moment he berated himself for not keeping an eye on the blond boy, even though he had dispatched himself from the rest of the world and even though he knew his attention would be unwanted.

Folding his Cloak and putting it into his pocket, he pushed the massive gates open just enough to be able to pass through and was surprised he was able to. No wards, no traps, no bells, nothing. Not even a lock. He made his way through the growing wilderness of the unkempt gardens in haste and wasted no time to flick his wand and launch the double doors of the front entrance wide open, as he proceeded into the main building.

"Malfoy?" His voice, though fairly low, echoed around the dusty interior of the manor. The once grand structure looked like it hadn't been inhabited for a very long time. Thick layers of dust covered every available and exposed surface and spiders seemed to claim the ceiling and furniture like they owned the place.

Harry passed numerous rooms as he walked the empty corridors and all looked the same. Candles or magical torches that happened to lay around were also dusty and and had obviously not been used in years. Frames and portrait along desks and the occasional fireplace were so dirty and worn out that most of their depicted persons were unrecognizable.

Harry run around the manor in frenzy for several minutes, all the while shouting g his rival's name. But no-one answered. His hopes started fading after a while. The place looked completely abandoned. He knew shouting was no use. Even if Malfoy was there, there would be no way to answer him. He had felt the soul's departure from his body. He still looked though, even if in vain hope that someone, maybe a house elf, would help him.

He was starting getting frustrated. It had been quite a while and he knew there was not much time left. It was then that he saw it.

He had just climbed the first elegant staircase he had come across and turned left when, in the faint sunlight that managed to slip from the mud-stained windows he saw it. A trail. A long, clear trail of bare footprints on the dust. He could see that the floor of the corridor was more clean than the rest, having obviously been used more often, especially closer to the walls. He could also see marks of hand-prints along the walls on both sides.

Without wasting any more time he followed the trail running, until he reached a pair of black and silver double doors. It was open a crack and, holding his breath, he pushed it wider.

His heart leaped from his chest, the sight of one Draco Malfoy, dead, crumbled onto the floor in a pool of his own blood, made Harry's breath freeze into his lungs.

"Draco...!"

He run to the body's side, keeling next to him and carefully taking him into his arms. He was mortifies by the sight of the former Slytherin. Even though his bony face looked in peace, he looked like a corpse. And that had nothing to do with the fact that he was actually _dead._

"Death." It was more of a command than a calling.

The smoky entity appeared within moments by his side, in her favorite female form. She knelt while afloat behind him and placed her delicate but dangerous looking grey hands on his hunched shoulders. Her face came above his right shoulder, right next to his, looking at the dead man in his arms.

"Yes, my Master?" Her voice was too sweet and sleek for such a dark existence and it almost send shivers down her Master's spine, but he was too focused on the blood splattered upon that once heavenly face to care. His voice sounded firm when it came out of his mouth.

"Bring it back." A simple, rare command.

"Master..." She sounded almost resigned. She left her position behind him to stand in0front of his face, floating above Draco. "It'll be of little use. He's gone. He's already on his way passed the stream. There's noth--"

Harry teared his gaze from the pale face to glare at her, his green eyes so fierce she backed away.

"I said. Bring. His soul. Back." His growl was feral and Death simply stared at her liege in silence. Harry could swear he saw her swallow nervously, which was impossible simply because death doesn't swallow. It didn't last long, before something flashed behind her dark eyes and she smirked.

"As you wish." She whispered lewdly with a small bow before disappearing again into nothingness.

Harry waited in silence, transfixed by the sight before him. Draco looked nothing like the boy that seemed sworn to make his life a living hell and whose life he'd saved a few years back. What could have happened to him during those years... He took in the broken mirror and skeletoned body, before his eyes fell onto the angry cresented cut that adorned the flesh of his wrist beneath the Dark Mark, reaching deep, cutting through meat and tendons to meet the bone. He took out his wand -the Elder one- and cast a quick spell to heal the flesh before tightening his arms around the frail body. 

It was mortifying, yet fascinated in a twisted way. Why? Why would Malfoy take his own life like that? What had happened to break him so? What could possibly create such an awful vortex of emotions inside him?

A weak gust of wind indicated Death's return.

"It is done, my Master." She floated a few paces behind him, waiting. Harry nodded and placed a palm over Malfoy's heart.

"Thank you." She acknowledged him with a small smile, which he didn't see but could hear in her next words.

"Be prepared."

Harry didn't understand the meaning of her words until he felt a small, steady beat beneath his fingers. A tiny speck of color returned to the white face and dull grey eyes fluttered open. Harry leaned forward as Draco took in his first new, deep breath. And he screamed. A gut-wrenching, bone-chilling scream, filled with agony, was the first thing that left those pale lips.

He launched up, taking Harry by surprise and almost head-butting him, and clawed at his shirt until his hands were full of the soft fabric. His back arched and his hands continued holding onto Harry and pulling as he screamed, as if he looked subconsciously for something to hold on to pull himself away from the agony. Harry got over his surprise and shock quickly and didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around him once more, engulfing him into a bone-crashing embrace, holding him close.

"Draco, it's alright, you're alright, I'm here, calm down, you're okay, you'll be fine..."

He whispered sweet reassurances into the blond's hair as the other screamed and screamed, until his voice gave out and he could scream no longer. Harry continued holding onto him and whispering to his ear as the Slytherin started sobbing into his shoulder, grief he couldn't even understand shaking through his body uncontrollably.

They stood like that until Draco went limp on his lap and the former Griffindor pulled back a little to look at him. Red face and Black rimmed eyes tried focusing on him, but sleep seemed too heavy to resist. Silver eyes managed a tiny flash of recognition before they fluttered closed again and his newly-found breathing evened out.

"...Pott..er...?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for any mistakes on this or the previous chapters, I'll be soon going over them to fix anything I find. 
> 
> :)


	4. Act Of Selfishness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, I'm alive! :D *holds up SWAT shield to deflect carrots*

Harry strolled through the all but abandoned manor with the youngest of Malfoys cradled carefully in his arms. Death floated behind him, seemingly unbothered by the stale smell lingering in the air, or the dust Harry's feet disturbed as he hurried towards the edge of the property and nearest apparition point available. 

Draco's worn and open robes, now stained with big, red patches of his own blood, fluttered behind Harry, heavy and resigned in their dance. No one stopped them, no one was there to. The former Slytherin had been alone in that place, for who knows how long. No one to look out for him, to keep him company,  to keep him from reaching that point of -usually- no return he had eventually reached. Harry's jaw clenched in fury. This was on him. He should have kept tabs on the other boy-- no, man, it was too long ago since any of them could be associated with such an innocent term as 'boy'-- he should have been closer to him, especially ever since his father was admitted into Azkaban. Draco looked up to his father. No matter what kind of man Lucius Malfoy was outside his home, he was still Draco's father, and the blow of losing him to Azkaban was bound to be heavy. Especially since he died in that place not long after his freedom was taken from him. Harry did not know what had happened to Narcisa Malfoy, but the state of the manor helped him make quite an educated guess. 

Death followed dutifully, only occasionally stopping to scare a couple of poor spiders on her way, until Harry apparated them to the front step of Grimmault place, hidden from all prying eyes, even without his cloak, thanks to the old magics of the Blacks. She was there, though, when he commanded the front door open, waiting for him in the entrance hall. Harry barely spared her a glance as he moved to the main house, knowing full well that she'd follow him anyway. 

"What's wrong with him?" He asked the entity. 

Death fluttered above him, the whisper leaving the smoky lips echoing unnaturally through the corridors of the old Black mansion.

"Nothing is wrong with him. Everything is wrong about him."

Harry had heard her riddles before, too many times to find himself surprised by the vagueness of her words, but still unable to resist the annoyed glare towards the figure. She did not need any more prompting though. She, as well, knew him too well by now.

"He is an anomaly, dear Master. I warned you. He has seen. His soul has felt. The grief of loss of mortal self is too great to overcome. No matter how much the soul thought it craved the journey, it knew nothing of it. Now it does. He does. "

That stopped Harry short. 

"You mean he may not recover? The damage to his soul is that great?" He dared ask, glancing towards the supposed woman made of otherworldly smoke. He didn't know if he truly wanted the answer to his own question. 

"On the contrary, the soul is intact. The damage to his mind, though.... That I am unable to answer yet."

Her tone of voice and eerie expression on her smoky face didn't show all that much concern about the matter, even though Harry's head and heart raced in sync, trying to process the news. A smoky hand with long, bony fingers landed on his shoulder, not touching but there all the same. 

"Be brave, Master." 

Death retracted his hand, his shape now changed into a masculine form, not much different than the previous one. The voice was hardly any deeper, and the body formed by the tightly coiled cloud of dark smoke was still lithe and long, albeit male. He offered a small smile, one that on any other face could be considered one of kindness, and he fluttered down the corridor towards where Harry knew to be the kitchen. He was trying to sneak up on poor Kreacher again, no doubt.  
\------

It did not take long to cleanse and clean Draco's skin and hair, the power of the Wand too great, that even simple and weak cleansing spells were almost too effective. Harry had laid the thin body on his own bed, too distracted yet to call the house elf with instructions for a guest room.  
The torn robes that Harry had pealed off Draco's skin, the blood too crusted and dry for any other word to apply, now laid in a bloody pile besides the door that led to the adjoined bathroom forgotten, replaced by a pair of Harry's own clean and soft pyjamas. Harry rummaged through his cabinet and produced a handful of potions, varying from healing and nutritional ones to pain relieving ones and dreamless sleep drafts, just in case. He cradled the blond head with one hand, tipping it back slightly as he poured the contents of a couple of bottles down the pale man's throat. The empty vials were discarded with a simple wave of his wand, sent back to his alchemy station, cleaned and ready for a refill.  
All the Master of Death could do now was wait.  
And how ironic that the man who bore eternity would be so jittery when patience was required.  
He made himself comfortable on the armchair across the big bed, took a deep breath, and braced himself for the wait. He was too worried of what was yet to come to leave the Slytherin's side.

\-------

At some point Kreacher showed up, startling Harry awake, with a tray of food in his hands. It contained food for two, so Harry could only assume that either Kreacher was too light on his feet when he popped up earlier, or Death had taken a strange initiative to inform the elf of the guest. The earlier seemed both more probable and more based on reality. Death cared about nothing. He devoured his meal, leaving Draco's share on the nightstand under a preservation charm in order to keep it warm. It'd last for a few hours so he wouldn't have to worry about that. He was both impressed and thankfull of the house elf's consideration of Draco's health, because plain soup would be the only thing his neglected and weak stomach would probably be able to handle.

\-------

Soft whimpers and rustling of sheets steered Harry awake, his eyes blinking to adjust to the hazy moonlight that glowed through the worn curtains. He saw movement and was up in seconds, one hand to the switch of the light on the nightstand and the other to the pale form that writhed on his bed, his sleep plagued by demons unseen to Harry. The dull, silver eyes of the man were wide open, focused on nothing, as he keened and arched from the bed in pain, Harry's hands scrambling to grab him and hold him down before he hurt himself.

"Draco." The blond's hand shot up and curled around Harry's wrist, knuckles white with strain. "Draco!"

The body pinned beneath Harry shaked with each sharp exhale, fragile enough that Harry's body weight was enough to restrain him despite his frantic writhing.

"Snap out of it, Malfoy!"

Draco stilled. His strained body went boneless, the muscles on his back relaxing suddenly, like a switch got pulled, as he fell back down on the tumbled sheets. The only sounds left were their heavy breathing, their faces close enough for one to share the other's exhales.

"Potter...? What..."

The voice was weak, and small. Not unlike a lost child's.  
Harry released him, slowly, his eyes never living the blond's. 

"Shh. It's okay, you're safe, Draco. You're at my place." Which obviously wasn't all that much reassuring, really, since Harry doubted Draco remembered much of the previous day.

The former Slytherin's silver eyes slowly took in his surroundings, from the dimly lit space above and besides the bed, to the shadows that danced along the still curtains. Harry was momentarily lost in the glimer of the light in those eyes, but the find voice brought him back before he did anything stupid.

"I.... died." Draco said. "I remember, I...I...did it myself." His breathing, only barely evened out, picked up again and eyes full of panic suddenly turned and locked onto Harry's. "Why am I not dead?"

Harry's heart shuttered. Why, why did Draco sound so desperate...? His eyes welled up with unshed tears as he grasped the limp, pale hand in front of him firmly, fingers locking onto it, afraid that if he let go it'd slip away and fade.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't let you do that."

But Draco probably didn't hear. His eyes were drooping, exhaustion welling from deep within his being to drag him down with it. Harry hastily wiped his eyes to his sleeve and let go of the hand in his hold in order to lift Draco's head and help him drink the dreamless sleep draught he had fetched earlier. He didn't move from there, not daring to take his eyes off the blond man. Not until his the pale face softened and the rattled breathing calmed as sleep claimed him. And even then he stayed, holding the pale hand in his, a reassurance for both Draco and himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time the chapter is not proof read, but I couldn't wait any longer before posting. I admit it's kinda small, but I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless, even after, what half a year of hiatus...? (It's one, self. One year.) *dances the dance of shame, pirouettes included* ehehe....hehe....eh....
> 
> Cheers!


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